


Swings and Roundabouts

by ClockworkSampi



Category: Splatoon
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 20:43:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6872656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClockworkSampi/pseuds/ClockworkSampi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Admittedly, Buckley wasn’t entirely sure what he expected from his little soirée into Octo Valley that night, but he was fairly certain what was almost definitely a member of the arch-nemesis species to his species shouting, “Oi! Ahr yer gonna figh’ uz ‘erwot?” at gunpoint at him did not factor into said expectations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swings and Roundabouts

**Author's Note:**

> With apologies to the Scottish.

In complete fairness, Cosmo Buckley thought as he stared into the glowing lenses, Stubs did tell him not to go.

 

Buckley always did find it difficult to assign blame. His team captain, who could also be called his best friend by virtue of having talked to him the most, told him that it was the main reason he went the first three weeks of the splat season without a team.

 

He systematically failed to understand this logic. Surely no one wants to be the reason their team lost, it was simply good sportssquidship to remind his teammates losing is perfectly natural outcome of participating in a zero-sum competition and sometimes happens for no overtly obvious reason. It was the price you had to pay sometimes for putting on a show for the people.

 

He assumed he was last because he used an Inkbrush.

 

Well, his captain had said, that was the very close second reason.

 

All he wanted was some extra credit, and his professor said he could get some on his summary of the Great Turf War if he got some pictures of some ‘Authentic War Ruins’ and describe their significance in one paragraph or more.

 

Ending up camping in Octo Valley was far from ideal, but then he left the apartment late, and the sun was going down by the time he got the lighting on the pictures right, and walking back at night was looking all the more frightening by the second, and of course he had to get his eleven hours of sleep. Good thing the medical kit Captain Ahad recently made all their team members carry around had a blanket, as thin as it may be.

 

Now he stared down at a muzzle towards the final splat of his life.

 

This wasn’t actually supposed to happen. Everyone knew the Octarians didn’t attack people. They were a menace to Society, absolutely, that went without saying, but they didn’t really do anything! The Octarians were a looming shadow, a reminder of catastrophe. This sort of thing only happened around a squidscout campfire. Never in real life.

 

There were two of them. Dressed completely in black, their dark, metal breastplates emitted no gleam. Right under their vibrant red head tentacles, four goggled, pink pinpoints glared down at Buckley. Their grins hadn’t moved since they hauled him to his feet, and pushed their shooters in his face.

 

Then one of Octolings twitched her head to the side.

 

Then cocked it repeatedly.

 

Then jabbed her shooter barrel to his chest.

 

Then they glanced at each other.

 

Then back at Buckley.

 

The smirks wavered.

 

Buckley began to feel like something was required of him.

 

“Um. Hel-”

 

He was cut off by a groan.

 

“Tenlegs! Ahr yer gonna figh’ uz ‘erwot?”

 

Buckley stared blankly. He was not entirely certain what he was expecting, but he was pretty sure that wasn’t it.

 

“Er. Can I not?” he ventured, “I mean, I guess I kind of want to go back to sleep, if that’s alright?”

 

The Octarians stared. Their goggle lights flickered, in an impression of blinking. Finally, one leaned over to the ear of the other and loudly whispered:

 

“Wot’d ‘e sey?”

 

“‘e seys ‘e dinnae wanna figh’,” shout-whispered the other.

 

“Can’t be, meight. ‘e’s a Tenlegs.”

 

“Tha’s wha’ Ahy sey, meight. Oi!” The last part was punctuated by the sound of a shooter being raised. “Wha’d yer mean yer dinnae wanna figh’?”

 

“I mean I don’t want to? I mean. This isn’t exactly a Turf War, right? There’s not even a crowd. Why should we be fighting?”

 

The Octarians turned to each other.

 

“Ahy dinnae know abut t’is, meight,” said one. “Wha’ whould thae Elite sey?”

 

“Bah!” snorted the other, “‘e’s talkin’ pish, meight. Seyin’ ‘e dinnae wanna figh’…tha’s exack’ly wha’da Tenlegs who wanna figh’ would sey!”

 

“Tha’s rih’, meight,” said the first, with the confidence that comes with having someone agree with you. “Ev’ryun knows thah Tenlegs ahr consummeight lyres.”

 

“Aye, meight. _An’_ a buncha mindless barhberians.”

 

“Aye.”

 

“Aye!”

 

As one octopus, they brought up their shooters and splatted the empty air.

 

Buckley figured out a long time ago that eight points out of ten on the scale of good times to flee came from the opposition not expecting it. If your Sprinkler is getting shot down, they’re not focused on you.

 

“Oi!”

 

He was already bounding over the scrap chasms by the time he heard the shouts.

 

And it never really mattered where you ran to. You knew where the enemy was already; the only way to go was where they were not. Everything else would fall into place. It had to, because there was no way the alternate was happening to Buckley on his watch–

 

There! On the horizon! That orange glow of a camp fire! His heart beats on still yet! A fire meant people, people meant numbers, and numbers, Buckley concluded as he skidded to a halt in front of two warming Octolings, meant _safety_.

 

Too belated did his mind register that a standard Splatoon was composed of four. Buckley had never before felt a betrayal so deep.

 

Since it was important to meet the winning team with genial spirits, he smiled; or at least, his lips reared in an amiable way.

 

“Good morning, ladies,” said Buckley, stepping back. “So sorry to have interrupted you. I’ll be going now, don’t mind me please.” He whipped around, coming face to face with two barrels attached to two panting Octolings. “Hello, there. Both of you look familiar. Let’s never meet again, okay?” A hand whirled him around to another shooter barrel, a sight he was rapidly becoming cloyed with.

 

“Yer nah guin’ anewer’,” snarled the third Octoling.

 

“Really? I’m receiving mixed signals,” said Buckley as they began to circle him; rather like sharks, he thought. “You say not to leave, but you haven’t stopped putting shooters in my face. That makes someone want to excuse themselves.”

 

“Shut it!” A barrel clamped down on his ear. Buckley heard the infinite ocean.

 

“Don’t you have any chocolate?” he said, delirious through the panic. “You’ll catch a lot more flies with honey than ink shots.”

 

“Arh yea ‘avin’ eh giggle?” one demanded.

 

“’e’s ‘aving’ eh giggle a’ uz, meight! Luk a’ ‘im, ‘avin’ eh giggle wif oll tin af ‘is legs,” another one said, in reference to the squid with quaking knees and damp shorts.

 

“Fink yer bett’r tan uz fur yer two mur legs?”

 

“Whe’ll show yea ‘ow tae win eh War!”

 

“By not fighting it in, perhaps? Most don’t blame the crowd when they’re not fresh enough.”

 

“Enough af yer ‘Ahy dinnae wanna figh’ pish! Oll Tenlegs arh arh soldiers wif weapons tae thae gills!” one screamed at her unarmed prisoner.

 

“Ahy ‘erd they luv fazion, meights” said one, grinning awfully. “Which un wan’s ‘is goots fur garh’ers?”

 

“Please pardon my lack of knowledge of the feminine _dernier cri_ , ladies, but that wouldn’t stockings made of intestines be outrageously uncomfortable?”

 

“Aye, reckon they’ll chafe somefin’ fierce.”

 

“But fink of ‘ow _colorful_ they’ll be!”

 

_Clink._

 

The sound of the kettle being set back on the tripod was not particularly loud. It didn’t need to be; it carried all the subtle force of a sledge hammer lightly tapping a frozen lake. Buckley and the Octolings suddenly found themselves seized in biting silence, spider webs of cracks serpentining forward.

 

All eyes turned on the remaining Octoling.

 

Seated upon a large rock, she blew at the steam rising from her mug.

 

“Ah yes. A good cuppa if I’ve ever seen one,” she said, eyes unmoving from the mug. “Not like the sort you’d get in the Domes, mind. Tea’s an entirely different beast when you dinnae ‘ave moldy lemons and sugar you got to throw against the wall to unstick. All about perspective, gels. All about perspective. Told you you’d get real whrld experience out ‘ere.”

 

She looked up in a display of undisguised mock surprise. “Oh! You lot done already? You sure!?”

 

Buckley remained a subject of sincere, if vaguely sweaty, bonhomie. Around him, he heard the scuffling of boots.

 

“Right!” The Octoling got up and strolled a beeline at Buckley with the easy confidence of one who has splatted you seventeen different ways in her mind and was patiently waiting for an excuse.

 

Buckley took in her features in the fervent way of those short of future. She was…well, it probably wasn’t fair to say she looked just like the others. No doubt Buckley himself looked like every other Inkling she had seen. She had to be their captain; her armor bore no markings different from the others, beyond being noticeably more pocked, but that garland of kelp around her carbon-black tentacles likely meant something significant. Her goggles hung languidly from her neck, inflicting the world with the presence of her green sclera and purple horizontal pupils.

 

She was also, he finally realized as an iron grasp any great aunt would envy clenched his jaw and yanked him down, a head shorter than he.

 

“Well, well, well. What do we ‘ave ‘ere?” said the captain, while turning Buckley’s head this way and that. “‘cuz it looks to me, gels–” she took a meditative sip of tea “–ah…looks to me a lot like a Tenlegs ‘as wondered into our camp.”

 

The captain released Buckley. He only just caught himself from the stumbling back.

 

“And what, pray,” she went on while she leisurely walked back to the ring of firelight and stared deeply into the faint cinders, “do Octarians do with a lone Tenlegs?”

 

There were noises of general affirmation, which, to Buckley, struck as dangerously similar to shooters being filled.

 

He took a deep breath.

 

“Too true, gels, too true,” said the captain casually.

 

Then she pivoted sharply, finger extended like a divine reckoning. “ _However_! What, if any of you sad lot can tell me, does a proud warrior do to an unarmed civilian!?”

 

A collective groan run through the subordinate Octolings, as if annoyed they not only weren’t going to shoot an Inkling, but now they had to listen to this harangue again…

 

“Let them go unharmed?” ventured a quavering voice. Buckley was horrified when he recognized it as his own.

 

The captain Octoling grinned at him like a convivial bandsaw.

 

“Even the Tenlegs knows ‘ow to be a better Octarian than you lot!” She lifted her gaze to whatever was behind Buckley; he didn’t want to look. “When we get back to the Domes, I’m ‘avin’ words with the Master Commissary. An’ guess what?”

 

Chilling terror coursed through the subordinate Octolings’ spines, practically tangible. A chorus of heavy swallowing echoed throughout the air.

 

“That’s right,” the captain went on cheerfully. “None of you lot are gettin’ puddin’ for a month!”

 

An outcry started.

 

“ _Two months_!”

 

An outcry stopped.

 

The captain seated herself back on the rock, looking pleased. Buckley was beginning to get the opinion was her natural state. She then pointed at him, gestured to some scrap close her, and said:

 

“You. Sit.” It was not a voice open to negotiation. It was raised to further address: “And will you lot put those things away!? Swear on Octavio’s Scar, you’ll ‘ave someone’s eye out.”

 

A chain of grumbles and scrapings of plastic followed Buckley as he scampered over while the other Octolings settled across the fire, the pink lights of their goggles glaring at him like furious stars.

 

The scrap was not, on a whole, particularly comfortable. It was cold. It slid a little too easily. It protruded in places that were rather private. But it a veritable custom-fitted massage chair compared to his previous situation.

 

“Sorry about this sad lot,” said the captain. “Thinks the only thing bein’ an Octarian means is splatin’ folks. You’ll ‘ave to forgive ‘em. They ‘aven’t figured out how to think for themsel’s yet.”

 

“Oh, it’s no–” Buckley began, but his lie was cut off when a tiny, scarred hand was shoved into his vision. Buckley shook it gingerly; for all he knew about Octoling biology, it might as well have been loaded.

 

“Elite Mel Reefrain, at yer service, Tenlegs.”

 

Buckley was surrounded by enemies who would just as soon splat him as talk to him, staring at this fire sapped his vital-to-not-falling-in-a-chasm-while-sprinting-away night vision, and he had no outstanding defenses save for his boyish charms (which, admittedly, were substantive). But that was no reason not to make a quality first impression. He stuck out his bird-thin chest.

 

“Cosmo Buckley. Vice-captain of Team Peak, behind Captain Rachel Ahad. A pleasure to make your acquaintance Ms. Reefrain.”

 

The Elite actually guffawed.

 

“None of that, now,” she said. “Call me Reefrain, meight.”

 

Buckley yawned with spent adrenaline. “What time is it?”

 

“Six in the morning, or thereabouts?”

 

“ _Six in the morning exists_? I thought six in the morning was just a myth to scare little squiddies.” He nearly added: kind of like Octarians. But telling the thing next to you it might not exist was something his captain would not approve of, and, furthermore, would make him sound exceptionally rude.

 

Reefrain guffawed once more. It sounded not unlike two knives grinding against each other.

 

Buckley risked a sideways glance beyond the fire. He didn’t enjoy what information he took away from this. It is often said that looks could splat, but not said often of those with weapons and the extreme willingness to use them, held back solely by pudding-based reprimand. If looks could, indeed, splat, then the combined scowls of the three Octolings would not have merely splatted him, but also smeared his sub-atomic ink particles across five dimensions. Not the sort of thing you’d see every day. Because you would never have the chance to see anything else again. This revelation did nothing to ease Buckley’s vehement compilations of mortality.

 

A sudden force on his shoulder squashed Buckley into the Elite. Three things occurred to him precipitately: One) Reefrain had her arm around him. Two) Her grip was distressingly powerful. Three) Sitting down, he and her were eye-level.

 

“Say, what’cha got in that pack?” Make that Four) Her breath was rancid with something metallic. But, bag? What– Oh!

 

“My backpack? I kind of forgot about it, to be honest.” He said, managing to keep his trembling knees out of his voice. “It’s photography equipment and a first-aid kit! Promise!”

 

“Alright, alright. Calm yoursel’. I believe ya.” She sipped her tea. “Sorry. Got to look after my Splatoon, y’know? Got to make sure you ain’t got any splash bombs or anythin’. ‘cuz sendin’ an appar’ntly weaponless civilian to explode a Octoling Splatoon after they’ve dropped their guard would be mighty clever. But you? You dinnae seem like a clever lad, aye?”

 

“Absolutely not,” said Buckley, sensing more suggestion than statement. “Dumb as a rock, me.” Or so they the twits who have no idea how to put on a show are so keen to inform me, he tacked on, to himself.

 

Then a certain string of words finally organized themselves in his mental Incoming tray.

 

“Excuse me but, when you say, ‘they’re not used to thinking for themselves yet’ what do you mean by that?”

 

“Eh? Well, DJ Octavio’s gone, ain’t he?” said Reefrain, succinctly summing up the situation.

 

One of the Octolings bolted up. “Yae cannae til ‘im tha’, Elite!”

 

Reefrain beamed glassily. Or, to be more accurate, like a row of glass shards.

 

Still holding onto Buckley’s shoulder, she reached behind her, pulled out a shooter, leveled it at a pink light slightly above the others, and fired.

 

There was a brief cry, and an even briefer, even wetter _wunk_.

 

“Warned ya you’d ‘ave someone’s eye out,” she said. “Do not tell me what I can and cannot do again, gel. This is my command. _Mine_.” She turned her horizontal eyes sideways. “Sorry you ‘ad to see that. Youngins these days ‘ave no respect fur the chain ‘a command. A little public disciplinary action goes a long way toward Splatoon synergy in the long run. Don’t it, Tenlegs?”

 

“Yes!” squeaked Buckley. Nothing got accordance like a woman who could shoot your eye out as effortlessly as she drank tea.

 

When Buckley eventually spoke again, it was covered in the conversational blast padding of a polite cough.

 

“So. I take it this DJ Octavio is your leader?”

 

“Aye,” said Reefrain. “Even captured by the vile Tenlegs-es, ‘e’s still our DJ.”

 

“Ah. And ever since he’s gone there’s been disagreements as to who should be in charge? You see it all the time during Amateur Turf Wars,” said Buckley, then remember his company and added: “Those don’t have established captains, you see. Just you and three randoms.”

 

Reefrain tapped her chin with the shooter barrel. “‘Disagreements.’ That’s one way to put it. But I can’t be rude. Evr’yone’s in a bit of a steight back in the Domes. We’re all missin’ DJ Octavio.”

 

“I feel bad we captured him. I wasn’t even aware. Guess I should watch the news more, huh?”

 

“‘e’s the best we’ve ever ‘ad,” sighed Reefrain. “ _No one_ could mind control an Octarian like DJ Octavio.”

 

After a lengthy calculation, Buckley offered another, littler, cough.

 

“Um. Did you say _mind control_?”

 

“Aye. And, believe me, the gels back home ain’t the only ones feelin’ the burn,” she paused to tap her temple, “how can ya even think with all this free will, Tenlegs?”

 

“Er…um, I guess it takes some getting used to,” he said, then continued a bit more imperiously: “And my name is Cosmo, if you’ll recall.”

 

“Hm? Yeah, that’s right. Sorry, Tenlegs. Musta slipped my mind, is all,” said Reefrain, who was squinting at the sunrise. “Would ya look at that. ‘bout time we pushed off, gels. And, ‘a course, time we bid you farewell, Tenlegs. Been nice meetin’ ya ‘n all.”

 

“Same,” said Buckley to the woman brandishing a shooter. He was going to do it. He was really going to get through this alive! It was so easy he almost laughed. Too bad there weren’t going to be any headlines; ‘Local Inkling Staves Off Splat Via Octarian Scouting Party By Being Suave Thespian,’ just rolled off the tongue.

 

“However, there is one tiny matter of protocol to be addressed.”

 

And just like that, Buckley felt his heart plummet. It was like being informed the teammate you played with yesterday had died.

 

“Y’see, the rules say that if an Octoling patrol meets a non-Octarian civilian, that’s you, Tenlegs, said civvy must be completely unaware of the patrol’s movements away. Most commonly, folks achieve this with an old fashioned shot to the head. _I_ don’t wanna do that. There’s more to bein’ an Octarian than splatin’ folks. ‘avin’ your pride as a warrior is great and all, don’t get me wrong, I’d recommend it any day of the week, but when everythin’s all said an’ done, rules is still rules, aye?”

 

“What if I just lay down and close my eyes really tight?” suggested Buckley desperately. “Promise I won’t look.”

 

Reefrain patted his shoulder in what might have been a sympathetic fashion.

 

“I’d like to believe that, and if me and this sorry lot weren’t on a mission of the highest caliber of importance, I’d let ya do that. But I need to be sure, or command will ‘ave my tentacles for soup.” She got up and pawed behind him. He felt a pressure on his neck. “So, ‘ere’s what’s gonna ‘appen: I’m gonna crack you over the head. Don’t worry nothin’s gonna be damaged, just a little tickle, I’m a pro at this. You’ll pass out for ‘bout, oh, three hours, by that time, we’ll be high gone, then you’re gonna go back to the City ‘a Color, forget you ever met us, I won’t be forced to kill you, and Bob’s yer uncle and Fanny’s yer aunt. Everyone wins. Deal?”

 

Buckley glanced across to the prone Octoling. Being whacked over the head certainly seemed like best plausible deal he could settle for. At worst, they splat him while he’s unconscious, and he doesn’t feel a thing. When someone quits out in the middle of a Turf War, the best thing you can do is accept you lost and rack up as many personal points as you can.

 

The possibility that Reefrain could be lying never occurred to him. Someone who so freely shot their subordinates had a certain destitution of compunction that repudiated mendacity.

 

“Fine. Just make it quick and please, please don’t draw on me while I’m out cold.”

 

“Splendid! Now, don’t move. Unless you fancy bein’ paralyzed from the neck down.” There was a pause, then Reefrain said brightly: “You fancy bein’ paralyzed from the neck down?”

 

“Please don’t paralyze me from the neck down.”

 

“Eh. Fair play, I suppose,” was the last thing Buckley heard before the world faded out of existence.

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked what you read, please consider commissioning me to write for you, it'll help me out a lot!: http://clockworksampi.tumblr.com/post/146010687102/sampis-commission-information
> 
> This has the possibility to continue. If there is enough demand for extension, I will supply it, but I am marking this a complete for now because it is technically a self-contained story. 
> 
> You can show demand by any of the following ways: leaving kudos, commenting, and/or shouting at me on Tumblr.
> 
> Speaking of Tumblr, you can view this post for the commentary on this piece: 
> 
> http://clockworksampi.tumblr.com/post/144459550107/commentary-for-swings-and-roundabouts


End file.
